


cold as ice, bold as fire

by sunflowerbright



Series: Hotel California [5]
Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Depression, F/M, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-01
Updated: 2013-05-01
Packaged: 2017-12-10 03:11:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,142
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/781108
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunflowerbright/pseuds/sunflowerbright
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“What is it that can make happy men sad and sad men happy?”</i>
</p><p> </p><p>or, the one that’s mostly from Enjolras' POV, and Cosette starts searching for someone</p>
            </blockquote>





	cold as ice, bold as fire

“I have a riddle for you,” is the first thing Courfeyrac says to him the morning after Enjolras had succeeded in letting down their mutual friend who had, apparently, been in love with him for quite a while.

Enjolras groans.

“Please, Courfeyrac,” he says. “No riddles today.” He is not in the mood for that. He is not in the mood for anything, except maybe to find something he can direct his anger and frustration towards.

He hopes Grantaire does not show up at the next meeting: he is not sure he can stand it, should they start yelling at each other again. Something about the other man’s eyes had made it feel unbearable, painful even. Possibly because he had said… Enjolras is not proud of what he said to Grantaire, in those last moments, but surely he was justified in wanting to have that conversation? Grantaire had been the one that started acting out, when Enjolras had been trying to keep calm. The drunkard could rile anyone up.

“Well, I am going to tell it to you anyway,” Courfeyrac says, eyes hard as flint, and oh, Enjolras quite thinks the other man knows: he had not expected Courfeyrac being present in the flat when he and Grantaire had had their talk, but clearly he had been, hiding in some corner, the idiotic, sneaky bastard.

“What is it that can make happy men sad and sad men happy?”

Enjolras groans again, just for effect and because he really doesn’t want to do this right now.

“I don’t know, Courfeyrac. Could you just tell me?”

“You have to gueeeess.”

“Oh, well,” Courfeyrac’s tone is playful, but Enjolras recognizes the steel behind it, and knows he has to play along. Courfeyrac is angry with him, and his friend is so rarely angry with any of them, that he demands to be taken seriously when an occasional storm comes to. “Is it biblical?”

“Well done.”

“Solomon?I think I’ve heard it before.”

Courfeyrac leans forward. “It’s a saying,” he explains. “Solomon asks for something that can make happy men sad, and sad men happy, and he wants one of his advisors to procure it for him, as a lesson in humility, because he does not think it can be done. The heart of the matter is that that is what they end up looking for: something that should be an absolute contradiction, but somehow ends up working.”

“I’m intrigued now, I absolutely am,” Enjolras says, wondering if this is payback for the time he forced Courfeyrac to sit through fifteen hours of political debates with him. But he was only going to wake Courfeyrac up with his shouting at the television anyway.

“You’re an idiot, and I won’t tell you the answer if you don’t behave,” Courfeyrac actually growls, and Enjolras sighs, but relents.

“Sorry. Go on.”

“It’s a saying: in the story, they find a ring, with the words _‘This Too Shall Pass’_ written on it.”

Actually interested now, Enjolras nods slightly. “Of course. Something to make the sad happy, and the happy sad: the sadness will pass, and so will the happiness. It’s a powerful message. I have no idea what you’re getting at.”

“It is a powerful message,” Courfeyrac leans back, crossing his arms over his chest. “I hope you get past being a great big bag of dicks sometime soon, Enjolras.”

That’s the start of it, except of course his conversation with Grantaire had been the _actual_ start, because Courfeyrac’s words are resounding in his head for the rest of the day, like a blaring orchestra, mixed with violins and harps in the nodes of the argument from last night. He remembers, too clearly, what he said to Grantaire, and he finds the guilt of that settling in his chest like a dead weight he has to carry around with him everywhere.

It gets worse when the other man doesn’t show up at their next meeting, or the one after that, and Enjolras discovers that he has not even been home for the last few days. Everyone – because everyone knows at this point, they really need to stop living out of each other’s back-pocket – shoots him glances, but it is only Eponine who actually says something, pulling him over after the meeting’s done to give him a truth or two.

“I don’t know what you said to him exactly,” she hisses, and her eyes are flashing and Enjolras remains silent, because he does value his own life and death by Eponine’s hands would be a sad, if dramatic way to go. “Courf was a little picky on the details because he’s your friend and he’s under the delusion that you have a heart, which let me tell you, I’m not too fucking sure you do. But from what I can gather, and you correct me if I’m wrong, after Combeferre accidentally let it slip that Grantaire had feelings for you, you went to let him down?”

Enjolras nods, because yes, that’s basically the gist of it.

Eponine’s face looks like a thunder-cloud. No, that is not apt enough: a thunder-storm.

“You prick!” she hisses. “What the hell? He wasn’t _doing anything._ If he had been all creepy and had stalked you, or if he’d demanded your attention or even in the run of the three years you have known him _asked for anything at all_ , then I could understand you wanting to stop it. _But you didn’t even know._ He’s kept it to himself for all of these years, because he already thought he didn’t stand a chance, he didn’t fucking need you to tell him that!”

Enjolras tries to remain calm in the face of the angry woman before him, but her argument is quickly picking apart everything he thought he had done right, and the guilt from before multiplies and spreads until he hardly feels like he can breathe.

“I only meant to…” he starts, defensively, but she interrupts.

“Oh, I know what you meant to. But it was still sucky. I get that it’s uncomfortable when someone loves you and you don’t return the sentiment, but did you have to rub it in his face? He was content to continue going on like this, why the hell couldn’t you have been too?”

“I didn’t see it that way.”

“You didn’t?”

“I thought… it might compromise… the cause…”

“Grantaire thinks he compromises the cause fine just by being himself! His feelings had nothing to do with it!”

Oh. Well. Yes.

Eponine narrows her eyes. “He’s not answering my calls or my texts yet,” she looks murderous. Well fuck. “All I know is that he’s out of town and that he isn’t dead. So I’d like to know what the hell you said to my best friend to drive him that far away, _please_.”

See, she says _please,_ but Enjolras is fairly certain she doesn’t mean it.

“I told him… I said…” he is never at a loss for word. Never. But the guilt and blue eyes and _you drove him away_ is choking him. “I said that no-one could ever love him.”

Eponine’s eyes widen, and it’s like a punch to the gut, because he knows enough to understand that she has seen and heard, and maybe even done, a lot of horrible things in her lifetime, it couldn’t be helped, and she actually looks… horrified. And very angry. Very, very angry.

“Enjolras,” she says. “I am going to have to punch you in the face.”

That does sound fair. And Courfeyrac finds it funny enough to stop glaring at him as well, which is a small relief amidst the chaos.

But Grantaire doesn’t come back. Not for weeks, and Enjolras finds that… he misses him.

At first, he believes he is merely unaccustomed to Grantaire not being there, because Grantaire was _always_ there, sober or drunk (thought mostly drunk or somewhere in-between), loud or silent (though mostly loud. Very loud), but he finds that he misses the occasional humour the other man would slip into their conversations and even his contradictive behaviour when it came to their causes, always criticising and putting their ideas down, but also always making him aware of potential flaws, making him ready for when it went from planning stage to actual reality: in the face of non-believers, Enjolras stands strong, because whatever argument against that they can come up with, he has already been hit by Grantaire with something stronger, more articulate, more accurate, the man surprisingly intelligent for one so… lost.

It is absolutely ridiculous, and Enjolras goes about ignoring it as best he can, telling himself he is happy there is not someone there to interrupt him and make a mockery of his goals, that he is thankful for a few days reprieve from the inane shouting and drinking. He pushes it down, and ends up snapping at Jehan for sneezing, at which point Courfeyrac pulls him aside and tells him to stop acting like a twelve-year old with an unrequited crush and _oh._

When a week has passed, he finds that he misses the way the other man’s eyes would lit up whenever he spoke of art, the way there would sometimes be paint-streaks in his hair and on his hands, the way he would start blinking too quickly when he was tired or had had too much drink, the way he would play with Eponine or Jehan’s hair if he was getting bored, Enjolras sometimes catching himself wondering what it would feel like if he let Grantaire play with his hair as well…

His thoughts screeches to a halt right there, and Enjolras actually drops the stack of paper he was holding, information on legalization of same-sex marriage across the world fluttering across the floor.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre asks, worriedly.

“I’m not certain _this_ will pass,” is all he says, and because Combeferre is Combeferre, he merely gives him a look like he knows exactly what Enjolras means, and bends down to help him pick up the papers.

It gets even worse after that. He can hardly sleep: he has never considered it before, the fact that Grantaire is so human in everything he does. Grantaire has always been a hindrance, a barrier to overcome before Enjolras feels like their work is actually something to really get started with. His disbelief and boisterous nature has been that of an idea or a concept, and Enjolras had been bewildered when everyone seemed to take it for granted that this… this being, who seemed to disdain everything he stood for, should have actual, human feelings for him. That Grantaire could and would love him, without expecting anything in return. Ever.

He’s been a goddamn idiot. He imagines anyone else saying the kind of things he had said to Grantaire, or even things only half so bad, and immediately Enjolras wants to punch said person in the face, and since said person is himself, well, he gets quite the strong urge to go seek out Eponine, and let her do the work. He wonders how he can even pretend to lead a group that is there to help the people, when he clearly has such little grasp on clear, human emotion. What had he been thinking, that it was alright to say those things, even had they been true?

And he finds that they are definitely not true. When he cannot sleep, he ends up sitting with his phone in his hand, staring at Grantaire’s number with the picture of the man displayed. A part of him that he tries to shut down wonders if this is how Grantaire felt like, all that time, staring at something that you needed to be there, and knowing that if you pressed the call-button, chances are it would never get picked up.

Of course, after this, things get even worse, because why the hell not?

They remember; Enjolras own memories coming back in a burst of gunfire and blood, and all he can actually focus on in the minutes following is clear, blue eyes.

It is fate finally being kind, he thinks, when Grantaire comes back so shortly after, when they are all somewhat settled into this new craziness. As soon as he steps into the café, Enjolras feels something heavy let go of him, like a hand that had been squeezing at his heart, a part of him believing he would never get to see Grantaire again. But he is here now, and everything…

_“Stop! Long live the Republic!”_

Everything would be fine now.

_“I am one of them!”_

“Hola,” Grantaire says, and his blue eyes _(it’s all Enjolras can think, he thinks he has dreamed of blue like this, his whole life, and how had he never recognized it as those eyes before now?)_ are clouded with confusion.

And Enjolras is back to feeling wretched and desperate again.

“You really don’t remember?” he asks over the phone later, and dammit, he needs to get a grip, he needs to stop feeling like every confirmation of Grantaire’s amnesia is another slap, another punch right where it hurts. He doesn’t know how to move past this.

He finds himself desperate to have Grantaire remember again, because he cannot be alone with this, he cannot, and _he can see it now_ , back then and now, the way Grantaire had looked at him, and it is in no way unwelcome, not now, not when he thinks he understands a little better, when he realizes that it had all been… it had all been for him.

Enjolras is discovering new things every day now: the way Grantaire smiles when he’s amused over stupidity versus the way he smiles when Eponine or Bahorel or Feuilly has told a joke he likes. The way his dark curls will shift when he runs a hand through it, and always be just a little on the side of messy, no matter what he’s done with it, no matter if it’s now or hundreds of years ago. The way his lips curve, the way Grantaire’s fingers trace his own lips when he’s deep in thought, or the way they caress one of those blasted bottles, and _fuck_ Enjolras needs to stop thinking about Grantaire’s mouth so much, he really does.

Because one thing he has learned is that being near Grantaire is pure torture. The other man simply _will not get it._ Enjolras knows he’s being subtle, but he doesn’t want to risk breaking whatever they have in favour of rushing forward: he needs to do this properly, which is why he ends up in Combeferre’s flat with way too many people, and Grantaire pressed flush against his side for a heavenly fifteen minutes, before the artist decides to go make popcorn of all things.

Things go even more to hell after that, and surely this is karma, or at least that’s what Jehan or Bossuet would say, had he told them: with every word Grantaire says in anger, the truth of it shining through, his heart is being ripped apart along with it, and this must be why Grantaire chooses to drown it all in drink, because if he really feels like this every day, all day, it is a wonder he has not gone insane yet.

Eponine and Grantaire leaves Enjolras standing on the sidewalk with his heart trying to crawl its way out of his chest, through his throat, obscuring any words he should wish to speak against this, to make Grantaire stay, to make him realize, to _tell him._

Tell him about gunfire and clear blue eyes and how the last thing he had felt in that other life had been his warm, steady hand in his.

He wonders, even now, because Grantaire’s hands had always been shaking, always, drink or not, he was always a little unbalanced, but in that moment he had been calm, steady eyes and steady grip, steady voice and…

Enjolras thinks, if it hadn’t been for that, he would be going insane right now. Because he _failed._ His plans made up to nothing, and all he did was get his friends killed.

But Grantaire had looked at him with clear blue eyes, and he thought… if he could make someone as cynical as that man believe, then it could not have been all for naught. Because in that moment it hadn’t been a rash and hurt and drunk man, shouting obscenities and being a nuisance in general. In that moment, he had been the last person to stand beside Enjolras, as unafraid as the leader himself should have been, calm as if to die beside him was the easiest decision he had ever made.

And that is why, right in this moment, Enjolras desperately needs Grantaire to come back.

But he doesn’t. Of course he doesn’t.

“Enjolras?” Combeferre is there again, like a magic genie out of a bottle, summoned when there is need of him. Enjolras has rarely been this thankful for it, because he needs… he needs…

“I think I have feelings for Grantaire,” he says, and it feels good, in a way, to say it out loud, admit to it, but he is also suddenly _fucking terrified_ , because now it’s out and he can’t just take it back, and everyone will know because they for some reason always do, except for him when it comes to what will later turn into something so important.

He is the biggest fool to walk this Earth.

“I know,” Combeferre states, and Enjolras wants to groan but wilfully stops himself. He is not a child. He will handle this with grace.

He will not start running after Grantaire and demand the he take what he said back, but he doesn’t know what to do if he doesn’t even have Grantaire’s friendship: if there is nothing left for him, at all.

“We died together,” he speaks so quickly he cannot stop himself, and Combeferre looks surprised. Enjolras has told no-one, has not breathed a word, because the only person that should actually know did not, and he doesn’t have the courage or the proper words to tell him, to explain to him how grateful he is, how happy he had been, even in a moment such as that, all because of Grantaire.

“When the rest of you had…” it’s hard to say. It’s hard to comprehend, but when you do, it is hard to say, because his friends had all died, right in front of him. “He woke up. And he came to me, and he stood beside me. He asked the soldiers to finish us at the same blow. He held my hand. Fuck, Combeferre, he _fucking held my hand while we died, are you even listening to me?!”_

“I’m listening.”

“Then why the _hell_ are you not surprised?”

“Because that sounds exactly like something the Grantaire I know would do, both back then and now.”

“It is the _exact opposite_ of what he would do.”

Combeferre sighs. “You do have this problem where you see things in absolutes, you know that. Grantaire is a complicated man: but this is not even that complicated. Through his life – through both of his lives – there is exactly one place that Grantaire has always wished to be the most. And that is by your side.”

Enjolras voice shakes. “Not anymore,” he says, and hates himself for being this weak, for letting this get to him so much, when it had been his own grave he had been digging. “He…”

“He still loves you, he said as much.”

“But he hates that he does.”

“I think he hates it because he thinks you hate it.”

“What?”

Combeferre looks away, down towards the street where Grantaire and Eponine had disappeared. “You expressed disgust at the idea of him loving you: he said that as well. He believes you find his feelings, well, icky.”

“ _Icky?_ Are you twelve?”

“You know what I mean. But don’t… you two need to talk.”

“It seems to me that we talk quite a bit,” Enjolras mutters.

“But nothing actually gets said.”

He contemplates this for a while. “I’m… I don’t know how to do this.”

“You’re going to have to figure it out, I’m afraid,” Combeferre says, not unkindly. “Or you’re going to lose him. But,” he takes a step closer, voice turning grave. “Whatever you do, please don’t ask Courfeyrac for dating advice.”

Enjolras smiles slightly at that, and promises himself he’ll fix this, whatever it takes.

He still spends the entire night sleepless, wondering if he should call Grantaire or not.

He finds that he is not brave enough: he has never been brave enough, not even to get the other man’s friendship. How could he ever hope to gain it now?

 

 

*

 

 

Cosette calls Grantaire at six o’clock the next morning, and he loves her, but right then he wants to kill her. A lot.

“Can I come over?” she asks, and _what the fuck._

“Sure. If you bring coffee and whiskey,” he says.

“I’ll bring coffee and bagels,” she offers, hanging up before he can protest. But okay, bagels are at least nutritious. Combeferre and Joly would be proud of him.

He shoots a quick text to Eponine, who is over collecting Gavroche from his current foster-home, and then getting Azelma, who’d been staying over at Combeferre’s after last night. She sends back that she’ll take the two of them out for ice-cream, and give him and Cosette some privacy, since whatever the girl wants seems important. Grantaire remembers their conversation from yesterday, and thinks maybe his surrogate sister needs a little more time to get herself together, before seeing the other girl again.

But that is the Eponine he knows: she won’t hold Cosette to it, because it’s not Cosette’s fault that she fell in love. But everyone needs time.

He tries to apply this to himself as well, as he stares down at his phone. There’s a text from Jehan saying that if he wants to talk, he can always just call, and a missing call from Combeferre. But it’s neither of them that he needs to talk to: it’s Enjolras.

Cosette (thank-fully) arrives before he can make a decision, coffee and bagels in place. They take their coffee the same, he notices, which is completely black and that sort of makes him want to cry on her. God, everyone deserves a Cosette in their life.

“So, spill,” she says, seating herself down across from him: she’s wearing a blue scarf that makes her eyes look like the heavens, and her hair is pulled back in a loose pony-tail. She’s… Grantaire realizes she looks like she’s been crying.

“I think _you_ should spill,” he says. “You were the one that wanted to talk.”

She shrugs. “I can’t come over just because I want to see you?”

“Not at seven o’clock on a weekend, you can’t.”

“It’s not that early.”

“My brain isn’t functioning. I’m seeing double.”

She doesn’t smile, but looks him dead in the eye instead. “I heard about last night.”

Grantaire gapes at her like a fish out of water. “How? It happened like, five minutes ago!”

“Feuilly texted me, and Musichetta talked to Marius…”

“How does Feuilly have your number?”

“We’ve started taking yoga-classes together…”

“You’ve known each other for about a day… _Feuilly does yoga?!”_

Eponine bursts out laughing. “No, sorry, sorry. Marius had promised him a lift to school, but then he had to get to his study group and left early, so I ended up driving him. He’s really nice.”

“Feuilly’s amazing,” Grantaire agrees. “I just… okay, no, you’re getting on with the group and that’s great. I know it means a lot to Marius, and it must mean a lot to you as well, what with how much he blabbered on about us way back when, and… okay, now you’re definitely crying,” he says as Cosette reaches up to wipe at her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“It’s stupid,” she mumbles. “I’m… I just get a bit… I love Marius,” she says then, and okay, weird place to start (or go from at all), but yeah, Grantaire can roll with it. He’s used to beautiful women loving their resident beanpole for some reason.

(god he’s so harsh on Marius, especially recently, but truth is, Marius is good and kind, if very awkward. That’s not his fault. Grantaire is loud and boisterous and drunk and sarcastic. And cynical. Too cynical)

“But we were married. We lived this whole life together, and we were happy, but I don’t want that life to dictate what I should be doing now,” she continues. “I still want to be with him, but I don’t know where to go from here. And then there’s my dad, and he’s… he doesn’t have the same kind of background at all. He’s a doctor here, now, he’s well-liked, he doesn’t have a criminal past, even though his childhood was, well, hellish here as well, and he had to make do with that. And I think it’s freaking him out, because now he has these instincts that tell him to avoid the police and trouble in general, but he doesn’t have to, he has a clean slate here. He’s never even got a speeding-ticket!”

“Okay,” Grantaire says. “Could you go on to your point, and then maybe elaborate on the part where your dad used to be a criminal?”

Cosette sighs. “It’s kind of a long story.” But she tells him anyway.

“He dragged him through the sewers, really?” Grantaire asks, by the end of it. “With open wounds? Joly’s going to love that.”

“Yeah,” Cosette mumbles, staring down at her hand. “Only… my mother died. Back then. I didn’t… I was two years old when she left me with the Thénardier’s, and I understand why she did it, I really do, but…”

“But it was the Thénardier’s,” Grantaire says, because he understands: he’s been left with them as well.

“And they’re… well, they’re.”

“They’re bad people. Their children are wonderful, which is a miracle in itself. How Eponine even functions, having lived with them the longest, I do not understand. But she does. And you did good as well: you didn’t let it get to you. You spend so long with them, and here you are, still going strong.”

Cosette smiles at him, blindingly. “Thank-you,” she says. “I’m just… she died, Grantaire, my mum, but I don’t… I don’t think she’s dead now.”

He blinks in confusion. “What do you mean?”

“Our lives are parallel in so many ways, but there are differences. My dad didn’t go to prison, you grew up with Eponine. And papa said that he didn’t see my mother die – he was with her when she died back then, but he hasn’t even met her here, yet. It was a closed adoption, I was at an orphanage instead of with the Thénardiers. The records say I was left outside a church, it says nothing about them taking me because my mother died.”

Grantaire stares at her. “So you want to…”

“I want to find her,” Cosette is clutching her cup so hard her knuckles are turning white. “I need to find her. She might have answers! Papa… he said he saw her, before he died, back then. He said she… he said she was always with him. And Grantaire, if we could find her, she could help, I really think she could.”

He feels it again, this shortness of breath. “I’m… Cosette…” he turns his head, and sighs. “I’m trying to deal with all of this, I really am… but I can’t, I just can’t. It’s too much, it’s too insane.”

She looks more steadfast now, sure… regal, like she always is. “Then come away with me, for a few short days,” she offers. “Help me look, and let’s pretend it’s just me looking for my biological parents, and there is no reincarnation-stuff and no pressure on you. I can’t do this alone, Grantaire, I’m not brave enough.”

“Of course you are.”

“I’m not,” she insists, and just in this moment, Grantaire has to admit that she doesn’t look it, eyes red and voice anguished.

And her words echo in his head: a chance to get away. To focus on something else.

Dammit, but Grantaire has always been like this: has always wanted to close his eyes instead of face his problems. And what could he possibly say to Enjolras to make this better? He had given up hope once before already ( _not the slightest inkling of love for you!)_ , and he had yet to regain it.

“Alright,” he agrees. “I’ll help you find your mother.”

He is going to regret this later, he just knows it.

 “This looks like one of those houses from a horror-movie,” Grantaire comments as they exit Cosette’s car in front of the orphanage she used to be situated in. They’d been driving for hours to get here. “Are you going to kill me and hide my body in the basement?”

“Maybe later, if Enjolras doesn’t kill you for your suggestion to Courf that they should make a ‘Barricade Boy’-calendar,” Cosette shoots back, too high-sprung to care much that even the mention of Enjolras name is enough to make Grantaire’s heart ache right now.

(but then again, it always has been. Now it’s just different, because there is guilt built on his goddamn idiotic mouth and his inability to keep it shut)

“That was a great idea, and you know it. Which month is your birthday? We’ll make Marius be that one.”

That actually gets a small smile from her, but she still looks like she wants to hide behind her too-big scarf. They’ve been driving all morning and most of the afternoon to get here, and Cosette has said little, the radio filling out the silence in the car, and now that they’re here, he can tell how tense she is, how frightened.

“Thank-you,” she says then, turning to him. “For doing this with me.”

Grantaire smiles. “Sure. I’m glad I could be of any kind of assistance really.”

“You’re a good friend.”

“Do you want me to come with you inside, or would you rather do this alone?”

“If you don’t mind,” she says, reaching to take his hand. “I’d really appreciate it if you came with. I might panic and start running for the hills if I have to go in there all by myself.”

“Well, we can’t have that, you have the car-keys,” Grantaire protests, taking her hand, and pulling her after him to go inside.

It really does look like something from the set of a horror-film, one of the ones he and Eponine would sit up watching in the long hours of the night when her parents weren’t home and the little ones had finally gone to sleep. They’d curl up on the sofa, hiding under blankets, and scare each other with sudden noises and creepy voices.

It’s been a while since they’d done that, now he thinks about it. He wonders what they would have been doing, if they had known each other back in the Nineteenth century. If they would have even been friends back then.

Cosette knocks sharply on the battered door, and Grantaire is almost scared it’ll suddenly fall down, the whole place crumbling or something: the house is actually kind of offbeat, as if the wind has been blowing it too heavily to one side, or the ground is sinking, like the tower of Pisa, except more ratty and demon-y. The roof must be leaking in a few places, and there is a window on the second floor with a shattered glass that no-one has bothered to replace.

A mousy woman with the eyes of a hawk opens the door, glaring at them until her gaze settles on Cosette.

“Oh…” she looks surprised. “You’re…”

“You probably don’t remember me,” she says. “My name is…”

“You’re Fantine’s little one,” the woman extends a hand to each of them in turn, her handshake surprisingly firm. “Of course I remember you, Euphrasie.”

“You…”

“Come in, come in. Let’s talk.”

“Super,” Grantaire mutters, giving Cosette’s hand a squeeze as he pulls her with him in. “An eerily silent orphanage, an over-excited caretaker… you’re blonde, you’ll die first, I hope you know that.”

“But will you cry when it happens?”

“Right up until I get axe-murdered too. I promise.”

She squeezes back and they follow Madame Mouse, as Grantaire decides he will call her from now on, into what appears to be the sitting-room, large sofas and a fire-place that seems oddly damp and… is that a cat having a nap inside it? 

Said cat opens one yellow eye to look at them, black tail swinging lazily in the air. Grantaire can feel himself being weighted, measured, and definitely found wanting.

He’s always considered himself more of a dog-person anyway.

Madame Mouse bids them wait for a few minutes as she finds the files and makes them some tea, and Cosette pulls him down with her on one of the sofas, fingers still intertwined, said sofa nearly swallowing them it’s so soft.

(actually it’s more of a death-grip she has on his hand, but Grantaire’s trying to be nice in this difficult time for her)

“If we fall through the pillows they will never find us again,” he whispers to her. Cosette lets out a nervous giggle.

“Do you think the heroin is stashed here?”

“Oh, she seems more the herbal type. She’s got a black cat, and I think I saw an old-fashioned broomstick when we got in. she might have attended Hogwarts.”

“You should do a calendar with a _Harry Potter_ theme as well...”

“Oh my god, I actually love you.”

Cosette smiles at him, blue eyes sparkling. “You’re a good friend Grantaire. Don’t let anyone else tell you otherwise. Not even _him_.”

“I don’t know what you mean.”

She doesn’t say anything, just leans against his shoulder a little, a comforting presence. Madame Mouse comes back, surprisingly quickly, tea and what looks to be biscuits from the times of yore on a tray, a manila-folder tucked under her arm.

“Here we go,” she says, sitting down in one of the armchairs and opening up the folder. “Euphrasie, born, adopted, all that jazz.” The lady is impatient, it would seem. “You were five years old when you current parent came to collect you, is that correct?”

Grantaire frowns at the word ‘collect’, as if Cosette had been some kind of package to be moved around, but the blonde next to him leans forward and nods, seemingly unbothered.

“Yeah, that’s true.”

Madame Mouse takes a dignified sip of her tea, eyes never leaving them. It’s very discontenting.

“How are you, Euphrasie?”

“I prefer to be called Cosette.”

“Cosette, then. How are you? You were a very lonely child, I remember, but also very spirited. Have you found your place in the world?”

“I’m fine,” Cosette sounds unsure, perhaps because she had not been expecting the  
question. “I’ve had a good life, yeah, if that’s what you’re wondering.”

Grantaire wonders when the woman in front of them is going to blink. It hasn’t happened yet.

“You are here because you want to come in contact with your mother, am I correct?”

Cosette sits up a little straighter. “Yes, that’s true. Do you have any information on her whereabouts?”

Madame Mouse’s eyes turn sad, suddenly, and a little unfocused as if she is remembering, recalling old and dusty memories from far back. Cosette’s grip on his hand tightens.

“Your mother was very much a lost soul,” she says, then. “We get a lot of those. She wanted to keep you, but knew that she couldn’t. She was very young, about the age you are now, in fact, younger I think. Even younger… she didn’t leave us a last name, and she kept saying that, when the time came, you would choose who you would go with. And I never understood what it meant, but you stayed with us, until you were five and Monsieur Valjean turned up. You walked right up to him as if it was the most natural thing in the world. You were always so vary of strangers, but you took his hand and held it, and you didn’t let go until you were explicitly told to.”

Cosette seems to have deflated a bit. “If you didn’t even know my mother’s last name, I suppose you don’t…”

The woman holds up a hand for Cosette to stop. “When you were three, a man came to the house. He was a book-seller, but his business here was to deliver something for you. He instructed us only to give it to you should you ever ask for it, and to let no others see it. It’s an address, and I do believe it is where your mother lives, or at least lived at the time.” She slides out a piece of paper from the folder, handing it to Cosette who takes it with her free, slightly shaking hand.

“Yeah?” Grantaire mutters, nudging her softly with his elbow. She’s gone slightly pale.

“This… Grantaire, this is right next to where I live.”

 

 

*

 

_“I don’t want to remember. I don’t… what is there to remember, for me? Nineteenth century France, I doubt I was even half as well-off as I am today, and I’m a fucking train-crash today. Was alcohol easier or harder for me to get? Did I set all my paintings on fire back then as well? Did my parents die when I was little, did the rest of my relatives look at me like I had crawled out from under some rock, and they were looking for a new one to crush me with? For fucks sake, I didn’t even have Eponine or Cosette back then, I didn’t have… here I at least have… I can take care of-of ‘Ponine and Gav and Azelma, and they need me, but what the hell did I have to live for back then?!”_

“Enjolras?” Eponine’s voice shakes him out of his daydreaming (or rather, day-having-a-nightmare).

“Yeah, sorry,” he says, turning around to face her. He is standing in front of the door to her flat like a fucking moron, but he had rang the doorbell and no one had answered, and he was just about to get out his phone to text one of the residents, because it was Saturday and it couldn’t be true that none of them were here.

Except now of course Eponine is here, sneaking up on him like that, and god, Enjolras really needs to get some sleep.

“Did you want to speak with Grantaire?” she asks, and Enjolras prepares himself for the yelling and the punching, but nothing comes. She’s just asking, and her eyes are… kind. And regretful.

That’s almost even scarier.

“Yeah, I was…”

“He’s not here, sorry,” she says, getting over to unlock the door. “Cosette needed his help with something, went to pick him up this morning. Do you want to come in anyway? I don’t know when he’ll be back, it could take a while.”

Enjolras hovers by the door for an awkward few seconds, before finally getting in, following the brunette girl who keeps shooting him knowing looks – people really, really needs to stop doing that.

“Coffee?” she asks when they reach the kitchen. “You look like a train-wreck.”

“Thank-you Eponine, your opinion is as always so appreciated.”

“You’re not exactly my favorite person in the world right now,” she grumbles, but puts coffee over for him anyway. “But you’re not at the top of the list anymore, so be glad for that.”

Enjolras stares out the window, not wanting to look at her. “I tried to explain, last night,” he says. “I didn’t… he misunderstood what I meant. I never wanted him to feel like this.”

“I know you didn’t,” she sits down on the other chair, facing him. “I know that you’re trying to be nice to him, and that you really do regret what’s happened, but this is Grantaire we’re talking about. He doesn’t… he doesn’t expect these things from you, and since he doesn’t know why you’re doing it, he freaks out. He freaks out a lot.”

“He doesn’t expect me to be nice to him?” Enjolras asks, feeling horrified. Eponine sighs in impatience.

“You’ve never been… well, you’ve been a bastard to him before, but it was nothing he didn’t deserve at the time, I mean, he can give as good as he gets. But just in general? No. I mean, I don’t want to speak for Grantaire, and you shouldn’t take what I say at face-value, but when he said last night that you weren’t friends, he was probably thinking that you didn’t like him, because that’s what you’ve told him. You’ve told him that he is unworthy of any kind of love, and that… that includes friendship.”

“But we moved past that!” he can’t help but say. “We… he forgave me, we talked it over.”

“That doesn’t just erase what happened,” she insists. “He’s still in that place where you rubbed his feelings for you in his face and then tore his heart out, so when you pay this much attention to him in a completely different way, he doesn’t know how to react. He’s used to arguing with you, not having you follow him outside to make sure he’s okay after every little thing.”

“Of course I wanted to make sure he was okay, he looked like he was ready to keel over in the shop!”

“You never used to follow him out before.”

“That’s because…” Enjolras bites his tongue, but he figures Eponine knows what he was going to say. Because Grantaire was a drunkard who was going to go empty his stomach on the streets no matter what. Because Grantaire did not like facing consequences. Because Grantaire was…

“I really haven’t been much of a friend to him,” he says, and the admission makes it ache all the way into his bones.

“He hasn’t been for you either,” Eponine says. “That wasn’t something he expected from you, Enjolras. But you need to talk to him, you need to make it crystal clear that you want to be his friend now, that it’s not just out of pity, because that’s where his brain is going, and Grantaire doesn’t want to be pitied, especially not by you. If you want to actually be friends with him, I’m sorry, but you’re going to have to make it very clear to my dumb-ass roommate.”

“I don’t… I don’t _just_ want to be his friends,” Enjolras mumbles, staring down at his hands, because he can’t look Eponine in the face while feeling like a ten-year old with a crush, hell no he can’t. She is going to tear him apart with her teeth, he’s sure of it.

The girly shriek is not something he was expecting.

“I KNEW IT!” she shouts, and well, now the rest of Paris knows it as well.

“Inside voices!” Enjolras scolds in his best Combeferre-tone, but Eponine is still smiling like a loon.

“I _knew_ you had the hots for him! This is great!”

“It’s not great, he thinks I hate him.”

“Well, then fucking tell him you don’t,” Eponine says, _as if it’s that easy._

“I’ve been trying!”

“In actual words, Enjolras. Words are what you’re good at, isn’t it?”

He narrows his eyes at her. “Who was it that said actions speak louder than words?”

“Oh they do, but when it’s Grantaire it’ll be a good idea if you have like, banners and charts with explanations of why you did those actions,” she gets up to finish the coffee, putting his cup down in front of him. “He’s…” she stops herself, but then sighs and continues. “If you want to do this, you’re going to have to know, but Grantaire’s self-worth is about as low as the chance of winning the big money in the lottery. Lower, even. He has trouble figuring out why anyone would love him, which you probably already gathered a bit, and I’m not going to go into details, because these are things he needs to tell you himself, if he wants to. But it’s not going to be a goddamn trip to a field of daisies. You can’t think that you can just fix him, because it doesn’t work like that. I do think, if you work it out, you could be good for him, and he might even be good for you too, but you’re both going to have to work for it. You’re going to have to be prepared for that, and I don’t want you starting anything with him only to give up in the face of all the crap he puts himself through.”

“I know,” Enjolras mumbles, though he is aware that, in all actuality, the things he knows about Grantaire’s depression are so few, the details about his past so scarce that Grantaire may as well, at times, be a stranger. “I just…” he doesn’t want to say this, doesn’t want to sound like this, but…

“I need him.”

Eponine’s face softens. “Yeah, okay. I just hope you know what you’re doing.” She takes a large gulp of her coffee. “And if you hurt him, I will beat you to death with a shovel.”

“Thanks, I figured.”

“It goes both ways, don’t worry. If he doesn’t treat you right, he’ll get shovel-treatment as well.”

Enjolras smiles slightly, feeling oddly warmed by the sentiment. “Thank-you, Eponine.”

“You’re welcome.” She says, and they let the rest of the morning pass away with other subjects.

Grantaire doesn’t come back that day

He’s not back yet the next day either.

_You have no chance. None at all._

_Fire!_

Enjolras stumbles, and finds he is reaching for someone who isn’t there. He ends up leaning against the wall instead, breathing heavily. He isn’t sure he’s quite ready to stand up on his own yet.

 

 

*

 

 

“I need you to come with me again,” Cosette tells him as the evening draws in on them, quickly passing over into night as they drive. “I need… I have to do it tonight, or I think I’ll… lose my courage, or whatever the hell… if she’s there, I just have to see her.”

Grantaire agrees to go with her -  which is why he is currently standing a couple of blocks down from Cosette’s house, knocking on a solid oak-door, because Cosette is too busy trying not to faint in excitement or fear or whatever wild myriad of emotions she must be feeling right now, to do so herself.

No-one answers, and there isn’t a doorbell to make more noise that is actually considered acceptable at this time of night.

“Maybe she’s gone to sleep,” he mumbles, and feels a little guilty about potentially waking someone up and just shoving their long-lost child in their faces. But the way Madame Mouse and Cosette tells Fantine’s story… or _stories_ , rather, he doesn’t think the woman will mind too much.

Finally they hear steps coming from inside, and there is a lot of shuffling around, before the key turns and the door unlocks.

Unlocks, but doesn’t open. Grantaire frowns, stopping Cosette from moving forward, and knocks again instead.

“Hello?” he says, and there’s a strange whooshing sound, a low thump, and then the door is thrown open so quickly he almost gets it in his face.

“Hey!” Grantaire yelps as he jumps backwards, nearly colliding with Cosette. “What the hell are you… oh my god, _I know you.”_

No, no, this is too weird. And also, the police-officer staring down at him is definitely _not_ Cosette’s mother.

“You…” it’s the man he’d met in the bar three years ago, right before he had met Bahorel. It’s the officer who had seemed especially exasperated every time he came to pull the Thénardier-parents in for questioning or just directly to a cell. And the man is currently staring down at him like he has seen a ghost.

“No,” is all the officer says, fear flickering in his eyes. “You cannot be here!”

Cosette peeks out from behind Grantaire. “I’m so sorry sir, I’m looking for my mother, her name is…”

“You need to leave!”

“Whoa, easy there,” Grantaire says, putting up his hands. “Calm down, okay? We’ll just leave…”

“What’s your name?”

“My…”

“What is your name, boy?!”

“It’s… Grantaire… I mean, I’m Raphael…”

“Raphael,” the officer nods, looking pained. “I’m sorry.”

Grantaire hears the gunshot, but he doesn’t register the pain until he’s already hit the pavement. He sees a flash of gold and hears Cosette’s scream right before the world turns black, and he’s quite certain that this isn’t the first time something like this has happened to him.

Huh. Curious.

**Author's Note:**

> The next part will be up this weekend.
> 
>  _'This Too Shall Pass'_ is a proverb usually associated with Jewish folklore, indicating that all material conditions, be they good or bad, are temporary. It is possible it originated in medieval Persian poems, but it became very popular in the Nineteenth century, when Edward Fitzgerald used it. Abraham Lincoln has also been known for his use of it in some of his speeches.
> 
> The title of this part is actually a quote from the book, used to describe Enjolras. The former part's title was from the 'Epilogue' lyrics of the musical: _'Do you hear the people sing/ **lost in the valley of the night** /it is the music of a people who are climbing to the light...'_. 
> 
> I'm sorry for the ending here. Please don't kill me?


End file.
